


The Name Game

by Losille



Category: Actor RPF, British Actor RPF
Genre: F/M, Sherlock set
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-18
Updated: 2014-02-12
Packaged: 2018-01-05 02:45:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1088669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Losille/pseuds/Losille
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Benedict knows he has an odd name.  He only wishes that the cute brunette production assistant on the set of Sherlock would drop it.</p><p>PLEASE NOTE: Words of first chapter are in a JPEG, thus do not show up in word count.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for codename-ted on Tumblr per her request for Benedict in a black monochrome suit with an OFC. I hope it meets your expectations, codename-ted!
> 
> This is my first Benedict solo fic. I tried so hard to limit it to a one shot, but the muse took me in a different direction. This story is told in seven (7) parts (one of them is this poem/prologue). I’m not all that comfortable with writing poetry, however, this idea for a prologue just wouldn’t leave me alone.


	2. Monday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you ALL for interest in this story. I'm very sorry about the wait, due to other writing projects, the holidays, and family troubles, it slowed down production of this. But--SHERLOCK! Enjoy! :D

On Monday, I attempted to sneak onto set after artfully dodging the legions of fans and paparazzi camped outside on the street, waiting for the action to start. I was more than happy to be back to filming after the long hiatus, but not having to deal with the madness that now lay just outside my trailer doors would have been preferable. Even though I had become somewhat acclimated to the amount of interest in the filming process of our little show a few series back, I couldn’t, for the life of me, figure out what they all found so interesting. Filming was a lot of standing around waiting for everyone and everything on set to be perfect and then saying lines that onlookers couldn’t possibly hear. But still they came, rain or shine, and stood outside 221B Baker Street waiting for a glimpse of us. It was quite enough to make one’s head grow much too large to be reasonable.

But I didn’t need to be checked often, and when I did, my friends on set always did the deed with no little amount of glee, especially if Martin did the honors. It was, however, disconcerting when a strange brunette appeared on set wearing the typical uniform of a production assistant—frayed jeans, basic shirt, a headset attached to a transceiver on her belt—and yelled at me to move out of the way of her motorized buggy. She wore the wan look of an overworked and underpaid employee, with darkened smudges under her eyes, and she clearly did not seem to care who she had told to, “Move, you daft, lazy sod!”

So gobsmacked by the treatment, I couldn’t find words anywhere within my empty brain to berate her, not that I thought it would help. Even though I didn’t expect her to jump out of the buggy and bow down to me like some god, a little human decency would have certainly gone a long way in resolving her problem.

“Oh, come on!” She tapped the little squeaking horn for good measure.

I had no choice but to move aside, but even moving my legs turned into a task. She continued on her way around the corner as though nothing had happened, to deliver something to someone. I stood dumbfounded in my spot. Martin found me with my mouth slightly agape, staring off into space, trying to make sense of the scene I’d just costarred in with the strange, insufferable girl.

“Trying to catch flies there, Benny?” Martin clapped a friendly hand on my back as I turned to him.

“The most peculiar thing just happened,” I replied.

Martin’s right brow rose in question. “Oh?”

“Some barmy production assistant just accosted me on her buggy.”

“Huh,” Martin said. “Are you sure you weren’t being a twat?”

I rolled my eyes at him. “I was just standing here minding my own business, sneaking onto set so everyone outside didn’t see me. And then out of nowhere she’s in front of me, tapping on the bloody horn.”

He laughed at me and shook his head, but pointed a thumb behind him. “We should be heading in, though. Have you seen Mark at all?”

I shook my head. “Not after we passed each other in wardr—”

The whirring sound of a speeding electric buggy made me pause in fear that I would come face-to-face with the girl again. I turned in time to watch her skid around a corner with a dapperly dressed Mark sitting in the passenger seat, prop umbrella resting across his legs. The girl and Mark talked calmly between each other about something and despite the speed of the buggy, she slammed her foot on the brake pedal to slow the vehicle down beside us with a screeching grind.

“Alright you lot, you’re late,” Mark said. “Hop on.”

I hazarded a glance at Martin, who seemed amused but climbed on the back of the vehicle anyway, leaving me to stare after him. My modus operandi was not one of danger. I preferred safety, and taking my time, and following traffic laws. Some people called me boring because of it. I called it intelligent. And my intelligence—my self-preservation—told me not to scramble into the last available seat. But they were all looking at me expectantly, so I jumped in anyway and sat down, gripping the very small handle on my seat to my left for dear life. A short prayer left my lips when the buggy lurched forward and sped away.

Mark filled the silence between all of us, though I was internally screaming . “Have you met Gillie, yet?”

“Huh?” Martin asked.

“Gillie Beane, our temporary Key Set PA,” Mark replied.

I frowned. “Did you just say ‘Jelly Bean’?”

Martin laughed. It wasn’t my fault that at the rate the woman was driving also created a rather loud roar of whooshing air by ears added to the mechanical sound of a driving buggy. Besides, I was old, too, and my hearing wasn’t always the best.

“Are you serious?” spoke the feminine voice, an indignant note mixed in the phrase. “You’re seriously going to muck up _my_ name?”

“I misheard. Sorry,” I replied as I turned my head back to look at her. I could just see a bit of the annoyance on her face from this angle, but it wasn’t much. She kept her eyes forward on the road. At least she paid attention where it needed to be paid.

Mark and Martin were both laughing at me now. Mark corrected me first. “It’s my fault. Apologies, Gillie. Gentlemen, this is Gillian Beane.”

Martin turned. “Pleasure to meet you, Gillian.”

“Gillie, please,” she corrected. “Gillian’s much too proper.”

“So not Jelly Bean,” I added just to goad her, unsure why I had done it. Of course my natural surliness had increased since she nearly ran me over a few minutes ago, but there was something about her that made me want to poke.

Mark sighed. “Please be kind, Ben. We don’t want to lose yet another PA because you’re being a bear.”

“I’m not a bear,” I replied even though I knew they were all just taking the piss out of me.

“Gillie just started with us for this last episode,” Mark said. “But this definitely isn’t her first time on a set, is it?”

“No, sir,” she replied. “I’ve been around enough sets to know how to deal with quarrelsome actors.”

I huffed. “I’m not quarrelsome. I don’t know—”

Gillian laughed at me. “We’re only teasing.”

We went over a bump in the road that sent us a good half meter off the seat. I banged my head on the top of the cart and reached up to grab for the slight pain in my head. 

“Did you drive much? You know, on these previous jobs?” Martin asked with a cringe as he adjusted uncomfortably in his seat.

“All the time,” she said. 

“Really?” I asked drolly.

“My mum always said I was meant to be a Formula One driver. I said ‘why do that when you can ferry around spoiled actors all day and give them a little thrill.’”

“No kidding,” Martin muttered as we glanced at each with wide laughing eyes. I couldn’t contain my amusement at her comment. For being a rather prickly girl and nearly running me over, she seemed to have a decent enough sense of humor to fit in on set. 

Gillian chuckled. “Come on, it’s not even that fast. I can only go twenty in this thing.”

Mark played along with her, and I wondered how well the two actually knew each other. They seemed like old friends who had a decent level of familiarity with each other. “You just need a little bit of fun in your life.”

“I’d like to actually survive long enough to _enjoy_ my life, thank you,” Martin said with a laugh.

“Oh, you’ll be fine,” she said as she swung the cart around another corner that turned onto the street set where we were scheduled to film. 

There were onlookers standing behind bright orange blockades, and they erupted into cheers upon seeing all of us arrive. I composed myself as quickly as I could, but my knuckles had turned white clutching the handle beside me, and a slight cramp forming in my upper hamstrings from clenching my arse into place made it particularly difficult to put on a pleasant face. I’d not experienced such a pain since the last time I’d gone to the stables and went on a ride after not doing so for more than a year.

When Gillian finally slammed on the brakes again, both Martin and I scrambled out of our seat and tried to look dignified as we straightened coats and smoothed hair. Even though the makeup people would touch everything up before the cameras rolled, I couldn’t think of any other action to focus on to rid myself of the slight bit of nervous energy I’d had.

Mark lumbered out of his seat slowly, seemingly unconcerned with the roller coaster we’d just escaped. He thanked Gillian and she sped off again to do more buggy drag racing. I watched the back of the vehicle for a moment, squinting as the shiny plastic exterior caught the sun.

“Where did you find her?” I asked.

Mark chuckled. “Pulled her from the Doctor set for the next week until we can get someone qualified over here to replace Davy.”

“What happened to Davy?” 

“Wife had their baby,” Mark replied. “On paternity leave right now.”

 _Ah_ , I nodded at him. I wanted to inquire further, but I found myself sidetracked when another assistant showed up to shepherd us over to the holding area to set for the scene.

\-----

I did not see Gillian again until later that evening, even though I wasn’t particularly looking for her. She just showed up, as I later realized was her wont to do, at the most inopportune times. This particular time, she chose the instant I had stepped out of the shower in my trailer to knock on the front door. Of course, I hadn’t known it was her at the time—I expected Martin to be over as we were headed out for a drink with Amanda to celebrate—so, not thinking, I wrapped a towel around my waist and stuck my head out the door. 

Gillian stood there in the fading sunlight, looking like a fearsome angel with a halo of burnished gold on her head. This close, I could see her exhaustion in addition to her annoyance for being kept waiting. That was, of course, until we both realized the state of my undress—her only a split second after me. Her peridot green eyes flicked over my face and down my chest before lifting to meet my stare.

“May I help you?” I asked.

She blinked hard and seemed to shake herself from some sort of dream world. Gillian lifted a stack of large manila envelopes I had not noticed her carrying. “Yes, sorry. Updated call sheets and pages for tomorrow.”

“Oh,” I said. “Right.”

“Sorry,” she replied with a small chuckle. “I’m still getting used to the workings on this set. They’ve just sort of handed me odds and ends while I fill in... so, I’ll be around doing set work as well as office work.”

I nodded my head and let go of the door as I had attached my other hand to the towel. I would be damned if the thing fell from my hips and gave her any more of an eyeful. This action, however, necessitated me sticking said hip out the door to hold it open while I grabbed for the envelope.

Gillian took a marked step back as her eyes traveled over the length of my body again. I found it rather difficult not to be bothered by the rather blatant perusal, but I wasn’t entirely sure which type of ‘bothered’ I felt—whether it was an imposition or something more... dangerous. For her part, she did not seem to care that she might be found too forward or something else equally as exasperating. It wasn’t often where I met such a confident woman, whether or not she was berating me for getting in her way or making her wait. I couldn’t help but feel a modest discomfort with the situation.

“Is that all you needed?” I asked her when she didn’t immediately say anything else.

“Yes, that’s all,” she replied with a remarkable sweet smile. “Have a nice evening.”

She turned on her heels and hopped down the three steps to the ground level. I watched her disappear around the corner and then heard the sound of a buggy engine whirring to life before it peeled away from the trailer. A chill shivered its way up my back, reminding me that I was standing out of doors in naught but a towel. I chuckled and stepped inside, letting the door close behind me. Placing the envelope aside, large black lettering gave me pause. Emblazoned with neat script were the words “Butawhiteboy Cantbekhan.” I blinked, not immediately understanding, and then I realized it was supposed to be my name.

And then, instead of feeling offended, I merely laughed. It started first with the shake of my shoulders, and then progressed into a full body laugh. I deserved it after what I’d done to mangle her name earlier. 

All of my ill will toward the girl flew out of my mind in that instant, but that didn’t mean I was going to let her off the hook that easily. It was, however, something I could rectify in the morning when I returned to set, fresh faced and well rested. 

At that moment, I was rather in desperate need of drying off and warm clothing, so I abandoned the envelope and padded back toward the tiny bathroom to finish my toilette.


	3. Tuesday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is just a bit of fun. Nothing serious. No great meaning or literary merit... but I do truly hope you’re enjoying it. Writing Ben and getting into his “character” has been very interesting thus far. Thank you all!

On Tuesday, call wasn’t until later in the morning, for which I was grateful after staying out much too late with my friends. But because of my later start, I was able to take my time and wander unrushed over to hair and makeup for the girls to play with my hair. It continually surprised me just how much time it actually took to make such a mop of messy curls look perfectly disheveled enough for Sherlock, but the time was at least relaxing and included a blessed scalp massage if we weren’t in a rush to get me to set.

Needless to say, I was looking forward to it as I entered the bustling trailer. Glancing down the row of seats in front of lighted mirrors, I found my preferred chair already occupied by the brunette who had not given my mind a moment’s peace since she’d left my trailer the previous evening. She had somehow contorted herself into a pretzel shape in the seat, bare knees sticking out beneath the arm rests as her fingers flew across a small keyboard attached to the tablet on her lap. Mark sat in the chair beside her dictating something while he had his hair clipped and combed into place. He looked up at me and smiled.

“Good morning, Benedict!” Mark replied.

I still couldn’t understand how someone could be so bloody cheerful in the morning. The only sound that came out of my mouth was a begrudging acknowledgement in a grunt-grumble. Gillian’s back straightened and she turned to glance in my direction. She waved at me with a cheery smile.

“Morning, Princess Buttercup!” she exclaimed as jollily as ever.

There was a moment of silence in the trailer, but then there was laughter, and at my expense, too. I merely rolled my eyes and dropped into one of the other seats. Mark didn’t cease giggling like a little schoolgirl until I shot him a glare. Even then, his smiling amusement did not leave his face.

Gillian, for her part, seemed unconcerned that I had been slightly embarrassed and reached an arm out to her left, feeling around on the counter beside her—unseeing—for something. She finally grasped a huge disposable coffee cup and lifted it to her lips for a sip. But she didn’t sip. She chugged. When she had to breathe, she removed the cup and swallowed, placing it back on the counter beside her.

“Is there any more, Mark?” she asked, motioning to the tablet on her lap.

Mark pursed his lips. “Read it back to me.”

I tried to listen, but Claire showed up with her styling tools in preparation to do my hair. After securing a cape around my neck, she spun me around in my seat and leaned me back into the sink she had revealed beneath the fold up counter. What little I could hear dissipated as soon as she turned the sprayer on beside my head.

It didn’t truly matter what Gillian was reading to Mark, because it was her job and not mine, but some part of me wanted to know everything about her sudden appearance on set and why she and Mark seemed so chummy. It was the same part of me that wanted to know about _her_ , because I couldn’t just ignore the mysterious woman who drove like a lunatic, teased me relentlessly without even knowing me, and liked to bungle my name for her amusement.

Even if I deserved the last thing.

Claire took her time washing and conditioning my hair, and I found myself closing my eyes and enjoying myself perhaps a little too much. I was certainly relaxed by the time she finished and tapped on my shoulder to gain my attention. When I sat up, Mark was just finishing and mentioning something to Gillian. She nodded her head and typed something more.

“Alright, it’s sent to Moffat,” she said. “Do you need anything else?”

“No, that’s all,” he smiled politely and brushed imaginary hair from his shoulders. He then patted Gillian’s shoulder in that friendly way of his. “Gillie, we really do appreciate you volunteering to come over here for the week to do thankless work when you were supposed to be on holiday.”

She chuckled and shrugged. “It’s nice to have a bit of a break from Who, you know. It seems like I’ve been doing that forever.”

“You _have_ been doing that forever,” Mark replied.

“Don’t remind me,” she said, waving him off. “I’ll be around to collect you for your first shot in a few hours.”

He nodded. “See you then.”

I shifted in my seat and attempted to make myself comfortable, but my eyes were again diverted when Gillian turned the chair and carefully extricated herself from her cross-legged position, stretching long, shapely bare legs out in front of her. “Oh, goodness,” she sighed. “I shouldn’t have sat like that.”

Claire laughed over me. “Yes, old age will do that to you.”

“Old age?” I asked without thinking and with no little amount of incredulity.

“Yes, old age,” Gillian said.

I frowned at her. “You can’t be more than… what? Twenty-five?”

Gillian grinned and reached over, patting my hand. “You’re very sweet. Thank you.”

“You’re older than twenty-five?” I asked.

She blinked her peridot eyes and shook her head. “I’m a little older, but we’ll just leave it at that, okay? Claire, do you happen to have any sun cream? I completely forgot mine at home this morning in the rush to get out the door in time.”

“Yeah, hold on,” Claire replied automatically and left me sitting alone with the strange girl… no, woman. She was very clearly a _woman_ , especially now knowing that she was indeterminately older than twenty-five. She was _The_ Woman, as far as I was concerned. She completely baffled me in a way only Irene Adler could baffle Sherlock.

She stood from her seat and stretched her body out with her arms over her head. I realized too late that I had gazed at her for too long when she turned to me with a small chuckle. “See anything you like?”

“Um—”

“Here it is!” Claire interrupted in the nick of time, saving me from having to embarrass myself further. I had no idea what I would have said to Gillian anyway, because I certainly didn’t feel it appropriate to compliment her on the fact that her arse in the denim shorts looked particularly lovely as she had stretched… or the fact that, from this angle, she had rather spectacular breasts and I found myself otherwise inordinately interested in other features of her body. For being a woman of a certain age, she definitely had a lovely, fit build and I couldn’t help but take a male interest in it.

It seemed only fair after the way she’d ogled me in a towel that I could ogle her for a bit. However, I’d never intended to get caught.

My gaze shifted further down her body as she turned to grab the sun cream from Claire. On her opposite thigh lay a very large and rather intricate tattoo that spiraled up from mid-thigh and disappeared into her clothing. The tattoo popped with its vivid colors against her pale skin. I hadn’t noticed it earlier in the position she had curled herself, but now it was all I could see.

“Why do you need sun cream anyway?” Claire asked. “It’s forecasted to be gloomy all day.”

Gillian shrugged. “If the sun even _thinks_ about coming out, I burn. Better safe than sorry.”

She rubbed a dollop of sun cream over the exposed bit of her tattoo and then proceeded to cover her arms, but I did everything I could think of to stop myself from watching her. Even though I’d met and known many women throughout my life, I had never met one who was as unapologetically open. She didn’t seem to have a care in the world about what anyone else thought of her or how they looked at her. Or how she drew their attention.

Her carefree manner unsettled me in the best and worst way just as it had the day before when she’d stood outside my trailer, giving me the once—and twice—over. I could literally feel her joie de vivre snapping off of her skin in little electric shocks. She practically burst with energy. Galling it may have been, but it was also oddly and dangerously intoxicating. She was almost too much to handle.

_Almost._

I was fairly certain I could handle her quite well, if push came to shove.

I wondered, for a fleeting moment, if this wasn’t the breath of fresh air I had been looking for in a woman for the longest time. After my last failed attempt at finding it with someone else, I’d pretty much lost hope and had nearly descended into the world of confirmed bachelorhood. The realization that I was actually thinking these thoughts about someone else who also discomfited me on a fundamental level made me fidget uneasily in my seat. I had absolutely no business thinking those thoughts with Gillian in context.

Claire pulled my shoulders back and forced me to look up at the ceiling so that she could part my hair down the center. I blinked up at the older woman who smiled down at me, as if knowing what I’d been thinking. With a grin, she looked over at Gillian. “Princess Buttercup likes your tattoo, Gillie.”

I pursed my lips. I’d known Claire for far too long and she had always taken a special delight in teasing not only my hair, but this was a new low for her.

“Does he?” Gillian laughed. “Princess Buttercup can look at it all he wants.”

Despite all my forty extremely worldly years on the earth, I couldn’t control the inflammation of my cheeks. It was brief, but it was there. And I prayed Gillian hadn’t noticed it as much as Claire must have.

“Did it hurt?” I asked, searching for a topic.

Gillian smiled. “It certainly wasn’t licked on by kittens. The worst part was over my hip bone and the bit that extends a little up my ribcage.”

Claire shook her head and grimaced. “I couldn’t do it.”

“Oh, come on, some pain can be good,” Gillian said with a laugh. “After awhile you sort of just zone out and the adrenaline takes over and it’s pretty fucking brilliant.”

I swallowed down a suddenly parched throat.

Claire pulled on a tangle of my hair with her comb, making me cringe from the discomfort. She carefully picked her way through the mess and then glanced once more at Gillian. “I don’t know how you’re ever going to have wee ones with that. Aren’t you worried about it stretching out or something?”

“It won’t stretch that much and it’ll go back if I lose the weight afterward,” Gillian replied. “But since I haven’t had any offers of late to do the deed, I don’t think I’ll have to worry about it any time soon.”

I shifted uncomfortably. It all felt very private, this conversation between Claire and Gillian, as though I was privy into the inner workings of the female psyche—workings in which I had no business witnessing. But I couldn’t help that I was enormously interested in the fact that Gillian was—apparently—single. Why? I didn’t know the answer to that; I dared not entertain the thoughts in my head. Since yesterday, she had been nothing but snippy with me. She’d nearly killed me on a buggy, and then brazenly stared at me when she delivered the call sheet and revisions. This wasn’t including the fact that she took great delight in taking the piss out of me for my name.

And now I wasn’t completely certain she wasn’t making a show of applying sun cream to her body only to toy with me.

The radio and headset sitting on the counter in front of Gillian crackled to life. She sighed and looked at the device for a minute, but then reached for it.

“Gill, you there?” crackled the voice on the other end.

“Yep,” she replied directly into the transceiver. “Go ahead.”

“The extras are arriving,” said the voice with an edge of desperation. “We don’t have a holding area.”

“Why don’t we have a holding area?” she asked. “I told Frank to do it at our meeting earlier.”

“Reggie pulled him away from doing it to help with lighting.”

I could see the complete annoyance on Gillian’s face, but to her credit, she managed to remain professional about the situation even though it wasn’t a good one. The scenes to be filmed included quite a few extras and not having a corral for all of them could spell disaster. I’d seen lesser offenses quickly end a PA’s employment.

“Well, find Frank _and_ Reggie and tell them to get over there and section off a holding area,” she said. “I’ll be there shortly.”

She clicked off the radio and pushed the headset onto her head. “It’s like herding cats.”

I couldn’t contain my laughter at her surprisingly truthful comment. She glanced at me with a wink. “I’ll see you later, Princess Buttercup Cumbersnatch.”

I rolled my eyes again.

“Please impress me today and don’t be one of the cats I have to herd,” she said. “Thanks for the sun cream, Claire.”

“No problem, love,” Claire said with a quick wave.

With little more fanfare, Gillian left the trailer, her tablet beneath her arm and coffee in her hand. The door closed with a small _thwap_ , blanketing the room in silence and tranquility not present with Gillian’s frenetic, urgent energy.

I breathed out a small sigh and looked at myself in the mirror. Claire’s lips had turned up slightly in a mirthful grin, but she didn’t say anything more to me. I was grateful for it, because I didn’t quite know what I would say in reply to any of the questions I knew she wanted to ask.

Fortunately, I didn’t have to wait long for Martin to show up for his hair and makeup, and then we worked on our revised lines to occupy ourselves while Claire and her team worked around us.


	4. Wednesday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, so, SO sorry about the wait for this part. Enjoy! Thank you all for your support and interest!

On Wednesday, filming the episode didn’t seem to end. I’d started even before the sun rose with a ride to set and we didn’t change out of our costumes until seven that evening, but it had been a satisfying day on the job despite the length. We’d filmed in and out of the Gower Street set for the previous few days and had retreated to the set in Cardiff for our interior shots; I was thankful to be out of the constant media and fan circus that had coalesced around the building. But I had also missed an important face I realized I wanted to see—regardless of any discomfort she may have given me since the start of her employment on Sherlock. A brief discussion with Mark led me to understand that she had been retained at Gower Street for the last of the exteriors with only Martin and Amanda, but would be arriving for the rest of the week in Cardiff.

It confounded me as to why it had mattered. I barely knew the woman, and frankly, she irritated me beyond belief. In a good way, I suppose, but some part of my day had definitely been missing without her there with a snippy comment or calling me by some ridiculously made up name. She intrigued me. And I wanted to know more—I figured our stay in Cardiff would be a perfect opportunity, but it would have to wait one more day.

I dressed in my street clothes and then did a mad dash around my dressing room looking for my mobile, but remembered belatedly that I’d left it on set between takes hidden behind some books. By that time, I felt certain the place had been locked down, but it was always worth a try to get inside. I wasn’t beyond charming my way past the people who held the keys to the sound stage door.

My walk was short and brisk to the set; there were still a fair few people moving about within the trailer park, but most everyone had disappeared from the actual set. Fortunately, the security staff had not been by to lock the doors yet, so I let myself inside and bound up every other stair to the second level entrance to Sherlock’s flat. What I found inside the doorless entry made me freeze.

The object of my interest lay curled in a ball in Sherlock’s slouchy leather chair, cuddling her headset, a rolled up script someone had left laying around, and a ring of keys to her evenly rising and falling chest. Her eyes were shut to the world and I did not mistake the fact that she had fallen asleep. I debated on getting my mobile and leaving her there, but the position didn’t look comfortable with her bright red Chucks hanging over the arm of the chair and her neck craned at an odd angle. I knew she would wake up with a pain if she stayed, because I had spent many a filming day balled up like that in the same chair.

I stepped over to her and placed my hand carefully on her shoulder, shaking her slightly. Soft dark lashes fluttered up to reveal tired peridot eyes. She didn’t startle awake like someone else might have, but slowly came to the world of the living, frowned at me and batted away my hand.

“Oh, goodness,” she said as she sat up in her seat. “I’m sorry.”

I smiled. “It’s alright. I just don’t want you to spend the whole night there... you’ll have a crick in the neck in the morning.”

“Thanks,” Gillian replied glumly.

Without waiting for anything more from her, I went to the bookshelf to retrieve my mobile. I felt her eyes scanning the room as I walked in front of her. When I turned back, she was watching me with some interest. “You shouldn’t bring your mobile to the set.”

“I know,” I said with a small chuckle. “It’s a habit. I have to have it close by or I freak out.”

“Next time it will probably be locked up for the night, then what will you do?” 

“Beg and plead with the security guard to get in.”

She chuckled but it turned into a yawn that she stifled with a hand. “I’m sorry. I sat down just to take a breather. I’ve been running nonstop since three this morning.”

“Mark had said this morning that you weren’t going to be here until tomorrow.”

A slow, pleased smile spread across her lips. “You asked about me not being here?”

Realizing I had been caught red handed, I merely nodded at her.

She giggled. “We finished up early and I decided to hop in my car and get over here so I don’t have to be up at three again tomorrow morning. I need sleep.”

“It looks like it,” I replied. When she looked at me incredulously, I realized my faux pas. “No, what I mean is...”

“I know what you mean,” she said. “I’ve slept a grand total of seven hours since Monday. I remember now why I don’t ever want to be Key PA again.”

I laughed at her. “What do you do on Who?”

She blinked at me a few times and then chuckled. “I’m a producer now. Worked my way up under the Moffat regime.”

“Well that certainly explains a lot,” I replied. Actually, it explained everything—why Mark had monopolized her time besides the fact that he was head writer and producer on Sherlock, why they seemed to know each other so well, and a host of other blank spots I had needed to fill with the relevant information.

“See?” she said and stood up from the chair. “I’m not just another pretty face.”

I grinned like an idiot at her comment. “No, you certainly aren’t.”

Gillian yawned again and shook her head. “God! I need to wake up.”

To emphasize her point, she lightly smacked her cheeks with her fingertips.

“Where are you staying?” I asked.

“Same as you,” she replied and gathered a few other things that were not to remain on set, balancing them in her hands and under her arms. We walked out of the flat together and I allowed her to precede me down the stairs and out into the cool, damp night air. I held the door for her until she was fully outside, where she paused to take in a deep breath. “Yep, it smells like Wales.”

I frowned at her, but I’d never really considered it. With a sniff of the wet air, I shrugged. “I suppose it does.”

Gillian grinned at me and reached out to pat my arm. I nearly jumped at the touch, not because it was either unpleasant or electrifying in that wholly stupid notion from the romance novel that chemistry could be passed through a simple touch. Of course I had felt such chemistry before, and I knew it existed, but it never lasted. It fizzled as quickly as it began unless there was a slow build. I first wanted pleasant and constant, friendly and sure.

Something completely like her simple gesture, even though I knew I was reading too much into it.

“Well, alright then,” she said. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

I watched her go off toward the office, and I started in the direction of the street to take the short walk to the little inn we all stayed at while filming. Five steps into my journey, however, I thought better of my manners and turned around. “Have you had anything to eat?”

She was already a good distance away, but my voice had carried on the slight breeze. Gillian turned around, her face shrouded in the nearly moonless night. But I could see the pearly white teeth as her lips stretched into a smile. “I’ve had nothing but caffeine all day.”

“Then I’m making it my duty to feed you,” I replied.

Gillian’s giggle floated to me on a gust of wind. “Oh? You think I’m going to let you?” I worried for a moment that I had misjudged her, but she continued. “Don’t worry, I am going to let you feed me. But only because you’re so difficult to work with if people don’t do what you want.”

I scoffed at her. “ _I’m_ difficult?”

She shook her head and waved at me. “Let me drop my things at the office. I’ll meet you at the car park.”

I nodded as she began to turn, but then she paused and flipped back to me. She dug around in the pockets of her cardigan, and the two rear pockets of her jeans, before finding what she was looking for in the right front pocket. Gillian jingled her key ring and tossed it in my direction. She had a good arm, I’d give her that.

“The Ford Fiesta,” she said and walked away from me.

I stood staring at the keys and electronic fob in my hand, then glanced back in the space she had vacated. She was a rather odd woman, but I couldn’t help but feel a certain sort of interest in her. Sort of like a puzzle that needed figuring out. I thought that, perhaps, that was why she annoyed me so much. I didn’t get her as I usually understood everyone who crossed my path; my people reading skills were legendary in their correctness. Gillian did not seem to be as revealing as others.

As she had said, I found the car park and hit the button on the key fob. The car beeped down the row and I found it quickly. I debated on getting into the driver seat so that I wouldn’t fear for my life when she raced off down the streets, but I didn’t know how she’d take if she came by to find me there. So I slipped into the passenger side and shut the door.

In the few short days I’d known her, I found her highly organized and efficient in her job even though there had been some miscommunication indicative of her temporary position and level of employment superiority on set. However, I quickly realized that her orderliness did not extend to her personal life. Her car was littered with pieces of clothing she had taken off and discarded, papers, receipts, bags, and a million other things. A hair brush had been shoved into the cup holder between the seats, and a tiny disco ball hung on her rearview mirror.

She was wild and unpredictable, and as bothersome as the mess was, I found myself drawn to that facet in her personality. I wanted to tame it somehow and keep it for myself. Not stifle it, necessarily... I just wanted to taste a little bit of the freedom she so enjoyed. Of her ability to live outside the box. I could get too wrapped up in my own head and stodgy in my comportment. She was anything but that.

Gillian appeared in the distance, walking at a brisk clip against the wind. When she got to the car, she slipped inside and turned to look at me. “You could have turned on the car or something.”

I handed the keys to her.

“Or climbed into the driver’s seat,” she said. “I’m actually surprised you didn’t. You didn’t seem like such a fan of my driving the other day.”

I shrugged. “I didn’t want to insinuate myself.”  
Gillian turned and looked at me with serious eyes as she slipped the key in the ignition. “I don’t mind. I actually don’t like driving all that much. I like being a passenger.”

“Yeah?” I asked.

She nodded and turned the ignition. Music blared through the small space and she jumped, reaching for the volume knob to turn the sound down. She laughed. “Sorry. I was blasting it on the way over to keep me awake. I forgot it was still on.”

We drove the very short distance to the inn where she parked the car. “Is the pub next door okay?”

I nodded. “Perfect.”

Once we were inside the old building, we took a spot in the back away from the crowd and slipped into the booth facing each other. She popped off to the loo while I ordered us both fish and chips and two pints, though I knew I shouldn’t be drinking. It was one of my rules not to do so while I was filming Sherlock, but I supposed one drink wouldn’t hurt.

“So,” she said as she returned a short few minutes later and slipped into her seat. She sat with her elbows on the table and her hands under her chin like a mesmerized little girl, looking at me with inquisitive eyes.

“So... what?”

“How was filming today even though I wasn’t there to call you Bisexual Candycorn?” she asked.

I sighed and shook my head. “You just couldn’t resist, could you?”

“No.”

“I’ll start calling you Jelly Bean if you don’t stop,” I challenged.

“I’m only getting warmed up,” she said. “I found this amazing website that has a name generator for you. I plan on using it to its full extent.”

The waitress returned with our drinks. I took a long sip from mine and she neglected hers. “Why aren’t you drinking?”

“I have to get food in me first or you’ll be carrying me back to the inn.”

“That could still be arranged,” I replied without thinking about it. When I realized what I’d said and made to cover my tracks, I caught the look of laughter in her green eyes. 

She shrugged it off. “It’s not an entirely unwelcome idea, you know. You’ve got nice shoulders. You could probably hoist me over one of them. I’m pretty tiny. You could just carry me everywhere, like the goddess I am.”

“Would you like a golden sedan chair as well and three other men to help?”

She smiled. “It could be arranged, but I think you’re enough to do the job.”

My amusement at her pronouncement made me grin and shake my head. She was certainly very sure of herself, if even in a teasing way, but I enjoyed confidence in a woman. I like someone who knew her own mind and didn’t need to be pushed one way or another through life. And yet, there was also humility there in her self-deprecating sense of humor. 

It was odd—she was an amalgamation of so many contradictory things from the hard-edged tomboy with her tattoos and Chucks to her disconcerting femininity in her flirtatiousness. She was hard and soft, overconfident yet humble, but there was no questioning the fact that she was an enigmatic force in which I had not been prepared to enter my life.

“You’re very difficult to read, you know that?” I asked.

“Am I?” she chuckled. She folded her hands in front of her and played with a silver band on her right ring finger. The band came together in a clear green stone that matched her eyes. Gillian noticed my attention and stopped her movements, staring at me. “You’re not the first person to say that.”

“I’m not?”

She shook her head. “I’m like an onion. I have a lot of layers.”

Laughter bubbled up again at her analogy.

“It’s part of my charm,” she added. “You’re no cupcake, either, Mr. Candycorn.”

“No?” I asked.

Gillian chuckled and opened her mouth to reply, but the waitress came by with our food before she could get anything out. It allowed us to fall into a pleasant silence for a few minutes as we started our small feast, but it eventually turned into idle chatter. Even though I wasn’t making any headway into the reasons why I found myself so captivated with her, it was a pleasant enough meal and I was glad to share it with someone instead of sitting on my lonesome in the dingy old pub.

By the time we had finished, I could see her eyes drooping; my own eyelids were heavy and I’d had quite a bit more sleep than she’d had over the last few days. I could only image how exhausted she must be. I suggested we pay and leave; she jumped up before I even had the chance to lift my hand for the waitress. She went to the bar and paid our tab.

“You didn’t have to do that,” I said as I slid out of the booth and pulled my coat on over my shoulders.

She shrugged into her coat. “No biggie. I have an incredibly lucrative per diem.”

That made me laugh. “As do I.”

“I’m sure you do,” she replied.

“And I invited _you_ out,” I added. “I should have paid.”

She stopped what she was doing and held her hands out to me in mock annoyance. “Are we really going to squabble over a couple quid?” 

“It’s just the principle of the matter.”

Gillian would hear none of it and left me standing in the middle of the pub as she walked toward the exit. I caught up to her quickly—my strides were quite a bit longer than hers—and turned to look at her as she began to speak. “I don’t have time for men who, even though they’re completely okay with the fact that the girl they’ve just had dinner with paid for the meal, feel that it’s _still_ their duty to hold to silly social morays that dictate that a man must pay.”

“I’m not—” I had intended to defend myself, but it was useless because she was right and she knew it. I had been raised a certain way, and that had included being a gentleman and paying for a meal when out with friends, lovers, or others. Especially if I had done the inviting. Besides that, I actually _enjoyed_ taking care of the women in my life in little ways like this, but I could sense that my argument would fall on deaf ears.

She turned her peridot gaze up to mine and dared me to continue my thought as we walked.

“What if I actually like doing it?” I asked.

Gillian shrugged. “Save it for a girlfriend or your mother or something. Not your colleague.”

“Hey,” I said, reaching out from her to stop her. My fingers circled around her upper arm. She stopped dead and spun toward me, her soft curves colliding with my chest. Small hands pressed against the plane of my chest, burning through the thickness of the cable knit jumper and the shirt beneath it. I released her instantly, realizing that I maybe shouldn’t have grabbed her in such a forceful way though I had never intended it. She clung to me, fingers clutching the fabric and sinew for a moment longer to steady herself.

When she recognized what she had done, she let go of me and pushed back, but not far enough away from me that I couldn’t feel the warmth of her body or smell the scent of her perfume. It was flowery and exotic, but clean and understated. 

“Sorry,” she said.

“No, I’m sorry,” I muttered. “I didn’t mean to grab you like that.”

She chuckled nervously and moved her gaze from the center of my chest up to my eyes. “Yeah. It’s okay. Completely okay.”

We stood in silence in the chilly Cardiff damp, staring at each other. For my part, I couldn’t make myself move, so entranced was I by her. She was a little infuriating, a lot annoying, and somewhat enigmatic, but I couldn’t deny the heat coalescing in the small space between us. 

Before I could do anything about it, a group burst out of the front door of the pub laughing at something amongst themselves; the moment between Gillian and I burst with the same suddenness it had occurred. She took a few steps back, leaving me cold and unfulfilled. 

She managed a small smile. “Goodnight, Benedict.”

Gillian was gone before I realized her slip, but a slow grin spread my lips anyway. After a few minutes of watching the empty space in front of me, I convinced myself to turn and head toward the inn in her wake. I was, however, wholly aware of the fact that it would be somewhat tortuous to know she was so close yet so far away from me in that quaint little inn.


End file.
